Seyyed of Quarters 15 (1)

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

2016-10-08


Seyyed of Quarters 15

Memories of Iranian Released POW, Seyyed Jamal Setarehdan

Edited and Compiled by: Sassan Nateq

Tehran, Sooreh Mehr Publications Company

‎2016 (Persian Version)‎

Translated by: Zahra Hosseinian

Chapter 1

In the Streets of Revolution

A bald stout man with handlebar moustaches dismounted a motorcycle in the corner of street. He jacked it up and leaned the wall in the pavement and pulled out his pack of cigarette. He lighted up a single cigarette with a lighter. Having his eyes glued on crowd, he puffed at his cigarette.

On the afternoon of one of early days of December 1978, I had sat in front of our house with Seyyed Hojat and both let our eyes rest on crowd which shouted slogan and moved forward. The bald man with handlebar moustaches had caught my attention. It was like he had stood to smoke idly and for whiling away. I had a strange enthusiastic to join the demonstration, but my parents said that I am just a little boy and might hurt among that crowd. In the front row, younger people, arm in arm, clasped each other's hands and knocked their feet on the ground and chanted: "Down with the Pahlavi monarchy ..."

I felt a shudder beneath my feet when they were knocking their feet on the ground. The man patted his bald head and the smoke puffed out of his nose. The crowd came in front of our house. A few young people looked at the bald man. One of them said: "... dirty SAVAK!"

The crowd rushed the man. Before he could access his motorcycle, people surrounded him like a whirlwind and kicked and punched him. Like a worn-out and worthless cloth he disappeared under the feet of people. I don’t know what happened there, but he suddenly got rid of them with bloody head and face and ran for it. A few people ran after him, but he quickly moved away, as if Azrael had come after him!

With anger, People made a run for his motorcycle and set it on fire in a flash. Chanting and knocking demonstrators moved away. Seyyed Hojat went in. I was looking at the fire which was beginning to be extinguished. We had set gallons of oil out in the yard. While trying not to drop it, I picked a bowl and filled it with oil and upset it on motorcycle. The fire burst into flames. I went back, stood by the door, and watched. Several people, who had lagged, ran behind the demonstrators. The sound of slogans became weaker and weaker. The crowd passed Shahpour T-junction[1] and moved away. With trembling hands I brought one or two bowls of oil and upset it on motorcycle to make up the fire. The fire flared up. I warmed. I enjoyed and like other people knocked my feet on the ground, shouting: "Down with the Pahlavi monarchy ..."

  • Seyyed Jamal! Do you want to ruin us?

I was afraid. It was my older brother who had come to the alley. He looked at the oil bowl in my hand. He shook his head and said, "Kid! Didn’t you think that they can punish us?"

By his hand he showed me the oil trail from the front of the door to motorcycle. Suddenly I felt worry. I still didn’t know how they might punish us, but whoever followed the trail of oil on the ground, surely thought that we have fired the motorcycle. I didn’t feel enthusiasm for chanting and knocking anymore and didn’t know what to do. My brother rolled his sleeves grumbling and went to work. I peeped the yard to see what he is doing. He brought some soil from the yard and dusted around the motorcycle. I went into yard when I realized what he was going to do. Along with him I brought soil in handfuls and dusted on the trails of oil. I looked down before he says anything. I washed my hands in pond and then went in quickly and sat next to my grandfather's bed.

  • Did you take your pill, grandpa?

  • O Allah, let Your Peace come upon Muhammad and the family of Muhammad, O Allah, let…

He fingered his rosary beads and uttered Salawat.

  • Yes, my son.

His eyesight had begun to fail and he had been confined to bed, but would not give up uttering Salawat. I spent the first year of guidance school in Mehregan School[2]. I began looking after him, giving his medicine, and making appointment with his doctor, when schools were closed.

A few days ago, police had looked for demonstrators. In this case, my father opened the door of our house to let people take shelter in our yard. One of our house doors was open to Shahpour T-junction. My father had laid a large wooden beam by door which made the door secure after people’s entrance to yard, and then help people to escape from our other door which was open to the Yaqineh Khatoon neighborhood. My father had a shop near the Mohammadia mosque, and in the heat of demos and noisiness he was either in his shop or in house.

Among those who had entered the yard there was a middle-aged woman who kept her eyes on door frightened and worried. Agents had reached behind the door and kicked it hardly. I was afraid and did not know what to do. My father said: "If you keep your calmness, nothing happens."

My mother took woman’s hand and said: "come sister, let’s go in."

A swishing tear gas fell in our yard out of blue. Like a car which slips on ice and spins, it was spinning and white smoke was coming out of it. My eyes were bulging from their sockets because of severe burning sensation. One of those who had entered the yard broke a fruit box and said: "fire, we should set a fire!"

Seyyed Hojat ran and fetched a bowl of oil from barrel which was in the corner of yard, and upset it on the box. The man struck a match and the wooden box caught fire. All gathered. As if it was the last Wednesday of year and we should set fire to our old clothes to enter the New Year with new clothes. We gathered around the fire and held our head and face toward it. My grandfather shouted: "What's wrong? Why my throat and eyes are burning?"

The smoke of tear gas had penetrated into our home. My grandfather was taken out and was sat down next to the fire. Few minutes of our sitting around the fire passed. My father moved along and took men and young men to the backyard. He opened the door, peeped alley and said: "it’s clear."

The men went, but my mother lunched the middle-aged women to allow things to quiet down fully. Three or four days later, the police summoned my father. My mother was severely worried until my father returned. It was like she was walking on fire. She hit her knees and said, "God may not protect those who suck the blood of people like leeches from abject poverty."

My father returned an hour later. "What happened?" My mother asked anxiously.

  • Nothing, they had my word for not allowing people to go to our house.

Ignoring his commitment, my father waited for runaways behind the door.

I heard the name of tear gas in November 1978 for the first time. I had gone to my maternal aunt’s house along with Seyyed Hojat. An hour later, on the way back, we smelled something strange when we were passing Haft-Tan quarter. We walked in alley and back alleys and heard vague hubbub and tumult from street. A few people entered alley running. "Tear gas… tear gas..." they shouted.

I thought that somewhere should ignite and burn when tear gas is scattered, but the only thing that was burning was my eyes. Seyyed Hojat also was rubbing his eyes. "Brother, what is tear gas?" He asked a young man who had covered his mouth and ran.

The young man didn’t stop and while he was running, said: "go and take your face toward fire."

 Seyyed Hojat took my hand and we walked faster. We reached to the street. A little away, demonstrators had held their fists above, and on the other side some people had circled around a burning tire. We went ahead and took our faces toward the fire. After burning sensation in our eyes decreased, we rushed to our house.

My older brother participated in demos. Jaber was ten years older than me. He was a teacher and my father treated him like a man and said nothing to him. My parents were afraid that I hurt among the crowd and being arrested. Everything I did and said, they said in Turkish, "you are still a little boy!"

 

To be continued…  

[1]. Ghiam Square

[2]. Shahid Qazi.



 
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